


Patient

by aurora_australis, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-07 04:00:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16846705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurora_australis/pseuds/aurora_australis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: Injured, annoyed, and stranded out of town, Jack and Phryne discover more about each other as they continue their waltz - albeit this time dancing around a wrenched wrist.Oh, and one bed.





	Patient

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adverbally](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adverbally/gifts).



> Many, many thanks to Fire_Sign for organizing this fabulous Ficathon in the first place, and then for going above and beyond with her most excellent beta skills.

“You,” he practically growled, “are a terrible patient.”

The rather imperious huff she gave in response was somewhat diminished by the fact that she was currently standing on a chair in the middle of the room, trying to keep her wrist out of his reach. 

“Get down here,” he ordered. 

“No thank you, I’m quite comfortable.”

“What you are is a menace to yourself and others.”

“There’s no one else here,” she pointed out.

“I’m an other!” he reminded her in frustration. “Now get down!”

“Look, Jack, I know what I’m doing. I was a nurse!”

“You were an ambulance driver,” Jack corrected.

“For which I received extensive medical training.”

“All of which you are now clearly ignoring in favor of standing on a questionably sturdy chair, risking further injury, _just_ to keep me from fixing your bandage.”

She didn’t answer, just raised the aforementioned wrist up that much further.

Jack sighed, scrubbed his hand over his face, and decided a new tactic was in order. He walked over to the small chest of drawers by the door and picked up the bottle Phryne had placed there when they had checked in.

“Fine. Stay up there. Unless, of course, you want your pain medication. Because it, and I, are staying right here.”

Phryne narrowed her eyes and glared, prepared to remind him that her tolerance for pain was much higher than her tolerance for blackmail, but then the chair wobbled rather significantly and she decided to grace him with her presence on the ground after all.

She glided off the chair with as much elegance as she could under the circumstances and walked over to him. She then reached out her uninjured hand in silent demand for the bottle, but it was Jack’s turn to hold something out of reach.

“You can have the medicine,” he told her, “after I re-wrap your wrist.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” she insisted. “And really I think the whole kit should just come off now anyway.”

Jack said nothing. Just tilted his head ever so slightly and waited. Finally she sighed, dramatically, and walked over to the chair. She sat down and extended her arm to him with all the regal grace of a queen allowing a knight to kiss her hand. 

Jack rolled his eyes, put down the bottle, and walked over, wondering how he had once again found himself in such a ridiculous situation.

The answer, of course, was the woman in the chair.

It had started with a phone call. Still stinging from Stanley Burrows’ very recent betrayal, Phryne had leapt this morning at the opportunity to restore her faith in old friends, charging off to the aptly named Mornington when an acquaintance had rung about some missing jewels and somehow dragging Jack along for the ride. The case was easily solved, but, once accused, the suspect gave chase and, whilst in pursuit, Phryne had fallen down a hidden ravine, injuring her wrist and her pride. She still managed to slow the thief by throwing a well-aimed rock with her good hand, but the damage to both her person and mood was done. Jack arrested the man and delivered him to the local authorities while Phryne was seen to by the town physician, the equally aptly named Dr. Paine. And, despite all the setbacks, they were on the road home by early evening. But the day went from bad to worse when a sudden and distressing change in the weather during their return trip had stranded them in the rather less aptly named Frankston. They’d had to seek shelter in the town’s only inn. Which, of course, only had one room available. With one bed.

Ridiculous situation. Ridiculous woman.

And now, rather than contemplate precisely why that made him smile, Jack tried to focus on the task at hand. The doctor had done a poor job wrapping the wrist, and it was already coming undone only hours after being tied. Jack made short work of undoing the bandage and then, with the utmost care, began re-wrapping it. He was almost done when he noticed that she wasn’t looking at either him or her wrist and he paused.

“Are you alright, Miss Fisher?”

“What?” she asked, her attention immediately back on him. “Oh, yes, fine.”

“You seem rather far away,” he observed, but did not press further, finishing the task in silence. When he was done she examined the work, and offered a small, sad sigh.

“I… don’t care for bandages,” she admitted finally. “I wrapped too many in the War. Which is silly, I know, but there’s something about that bright white binding on skin that sets my teeth on edge.” She rolled her eyes at herself. “As I said, silly.” 

“It’s not,” he assured her and she smiled tightly and nodded. Then she stood, eager to change the mood and the topic. She walked over to where he had left the medicine, took the prescribed amount and waited for it to kick in, hoping the pain subsided enough to let her fall asleep easily.

In the one bed.

Damn.

Ordinarily such a predicament would be positively delightful. An opportunity to fluster him, or frustrate him, or quite possibly f... well there were other fine options as well. But she wasn’t feeling herself today. The injury, which required her to depend on others for simple tasks, had put her in a dark mood, and she wasn’t about to start something with _him_ when she wasn’t really _her_. Besides, this wasn’t a passing fancy; it would keep until the time was right. 

But the one bed was a dilemma. 

She decided to ignore that particular issue for now, and instead looked around for somewhere to hang her coat. She found a hook by the door, but the discovery only brought another problem to light - how was she going to undress one handed? Her daycoat was a mess after her fall, still damp from the storm, and she had absolutely no interest in sleeping in it… but it had _so many buttons_. After a moment, Jack seemed to realize her quandary as well, because he took a step forward to help her.

“Miss Fisher, I’d be happy to - ”

“No thank you, Jack, I can manage,” Phryne said haughtily, though even as she said it she mentally kicked herself. Jack Robinson was offering to help her remove her clothing - what kind of dolt refused that? Stupid pride. And it wasn’t even helping, because she looked a fool trying to remove the garment. Jack leaned on the door, watching in silent amusement as she attempted to unbutton her muddy coat one-handed. After a few attempts, Jack shook his head and pushed off the door frame, walking over to her and gesturing to the coat.

“I’m afraid, Miss Fisher, I’m going to have to insist. Your wrist is useless and unless you plan to sleep in that muddy mess, you need my help.”

“Fine,” she muttered, and begrudgingly allowed him access to the buttons. He very gently undid them all, slid it carefully off her arms, and then shook the coat out over the rubbish bin to clean it as best he could given the circumstances. Phryne gave herself a once over and then pulled the chair back towards the small vanity set. She crumpled into it and pulled up her purse, which was close by on the floor. She emptied it on the table rather than try to go through it one handed, and out toppled her lipstick, a handkerchief, a small brush, an equally small mirror, a scarf adorned with a pin, and some cash. She took the handkerchief and used it to remove the small amount of makeup not already undone by the day. When she was done, she glanced briefly at her wrist, then looked in the mirror and sighed, her face a mixture of frustration twinged with pain. She would never say as much, but the wrist rather did hurt quite a lot.

Jack watched her, silently, from across the room. He knew she would be taking this hard, any loss of agency a personal blow to his partner. He walked over slowly, meeting her eyes in the mirror, and silently asked if he could brush some remaining dirt off her shoulder. She nodded, then closed her eyes against the pain and the day.

As Jack was finishing his task, he noticed a stray leaf in her hair, almost certainly from her unexpected tumble, and without thinking grabbed her hairbrush to dispel it. With the first stroke of the bristles, her whole body softened and her face relaxed. The change was so abrupt and unexpected that Jack took a step back, uncertain what had just happened. She made a tiny disappointed moan, and he tried very hard not to think about _that_ , and immediately he saw the small frown lines return to her face, the pain from her wrist back at the forefront of her mind. He briefly recalled Arthur's music therapy and decided perhaps medicine did come in many forms. Slowly, hesitantly, he returned the brush to her hair and began to stroke. Again, she relaxed immediately.

For a minute or so, neither spoke. It was like that with them sometimes; words became superfluous to the moment. Eventually though, she felt the need to speak, to explain. It was like that with them sometimes too - the desire to knock down another wall and let the other in stronger than the self-preservation they had both worked so hard to perfect.

“My mother used to…” she stopped. Realized she needed to go back further. Began again. “I never had long hair. Well, I did, until I was… five? But I could never keep it neat. I wasn’t very good at sitting still.”

“I’m shocked,” he responded dryly and she shot him a look in the mirror. He met her gaze, humor in his eyes, and just kept brushing. 

“Anyway, that’s when my mother chopped it all off in aggravation. But Janey… Janey was very conscientious. She kept her hair neat, so it was always long. And she loved for me to brush it. I’d brush her hair and we’d talk about our days, make plans for the future - ” 

She stopped suddenly and took a deep breath before continuing. Jack kept brushing, never faltering in his calming rhythm. 

“Anyway, a few weeks after Janey disappeared my mother came into my room before bed one night because she’d heard me… I was upset. She didn’t really know what to do, she was a wreck herself, but then she saw the brush on the bed and I suppose instinct kicked in and she just started brushing. I calmed down immediately and she was so happy she stayed for an hour, just brushing and brushing until I fell asleep. The next night she came in and did the same thing. It made me feel safe when nothing felt safe and it became our ritual. Not every night, of course, but many nights. Until I was much too old for it,” Phryne said, with a small smile and a self-deprecating roll of her eyes that doubled as an attempt to lighten the mood. “Right up until I left for the War actually. I think, I think it’s what I missed most about being on my own. Silly, I know.”

“My mother used to rub my back,” Jack said, then looked up as though surprised by his own admission. Their eyes met in the mirror again and the open expression on her face made him want to continue. 

“To help me sleep, I mean. I had trouble sleeping sometimes after,” he coughed, and another wall tumbled down, “after my father died. She used to rub my back, just, just between the shoulder blades, you know. To help me fall asleep.”

“I didn’t know he died when you were so young.”

“Yes, I was eight. My mother remarried, when I was sixteen, but I didn’t take his last name. He’s a nice chap, I like him, but I felt like I’d be betraying my father somehow, if I did that. It sounds ridiculous now that I say it out loud.”

“It doesn’t.”

Jack nodded in the mirror and continued to brush. Eventually Phryne yawned, the day and the medication both taking their toll, and he smiled. “It’s late,” he said, “we should turn in.” 

“You’re probably right, Jack.”

Almost reluctantly, Jack put the brush back down on the vanity with her other belongings, and then, much to Phryne’s delight, removed his suit coat jacket, hanging it neatly with his overcoat and hat. He removed his shoes, but not his socks, and then helped Phryne with her Mary Janes.

Then they stood there, side by side, looking at the one bed.

After a few long moments, Jack broke the silence.

“So, which side do you want?"

"You aren't sleeping on the floor?" she asked, somewhat surprised at his lack of gallantry, even if it was unnecessary.

He snorted in response. "Why on earth would I do that? There's plenty of room on the bed for the two of us and I'll have trouble enough sleeping in an unfamiliar environment without adding a cold floor to the equation."

He looked at the bed again, considered for a moment, then removed his waistcoat, hanging it carefully on the back of the questionably sturdy chair.

“I’ll take the left side, then,” she replied. Well, if he wasn’t going to worry about it, neither was she. She got into bed and fluffed the pillow as well as she could with the one hand. As she waited for him to finish readying himself and turn off the light, she looked down at her wrist again and frowned at the sight; she really did hate bandages. 

Jack caught her look, and paused in his movements, abruptly struck with an idea. He walked over to the vanity and started rifling through the pile she had created on top. 

“Ow!” he said suddenly, pulling his finger quickly to his mouth.

“What?” she asked.

“I pricked my finger on your pin.”

“I'll have it arrested immediately,” she cheeked, and he narrowed his eyes at having his own words used against him.

“You’re no longer a Special Constable,” he reminded her. “You can’t arrest anyone… or anything.”

“Does that mean I should return the darbys?” she asked, the very picture of innocence. In response he just shook his head and tried unsuccessfully to hide a small smile. As he turned away again, she continued, “You’re not going to blush on me now, are you, Inspector?”

“Grown man, Miss Fisher, remember?”

She looked at him in his shirtsleeves and trousers, no suit coat to interfere with the view. “How could I forget?”

Back still turned to her, he merely shook his head again in reprimand. His sudden intake of breath a moment later caught her attention, but he didn’t elaborate and she didn’t ask, and a few seconds later he finished whatever he was doing on the vanity table and walked back to the bed. 

He was holding her black and green scarf, the one she had packed that morning on a whim; as he sat down on the bed, he gently took her injured hand in his own. Then he slowly covered the bandage with the scarf, erasing all trace of white, and clasping it, when he was done, with the small swallow pin he had given her just a few weeks ago and had pricked his finger on just moments before. She smiled at the sight, blinking back an unexpected tear, and he returned her happy expression.

“There,” he said, “no more bandage.”

“No,” she agreed. “There’s nothing here I don’t want.”

Still smiling, Jack nodded and stood, turning out the light before returning to the bed. The storm had abated somewhat, but lightning still streaked the sky and he could see her watching him as he tucked himself in, keeping as much distance as he could between them, though even he didn’t know exactly why anymore.

He heard her take in a breath. Steady herself.

"Jack, I… I need you to know, nothing's going to happen tonight," she said with certainty, if also a little regret, "even if... even if we want it to. It's nothing you've done or... I am unprepared, if nothing else. And unless you're a more optimistic man than you purport to be, I assume you are as well."

"Well as it happens, I am not unprepared," he paused to glance over at her reaction, which was, as he'd hoped, stunned silence, "but you are correct that nothing will happen. You are injured and impaired, and in my book that rather makes the decision for us."

"I'm hardly impaired," she argued, more because she took offense to the notion that such a small dose might dull her mind than to change his. "And it's just a sprained wrist."

"Perhaps," he said, voice low. He turned on his pillow to look her in the eye, his own vision adjusted now to the dark. "But I have plans for that wrist, Miss Fisher." Then he took her uninjured hand and placed the softest kiss to the pulse point of her wrist; a promising preview of things to come. "Goodnight, Phryne."

He turned over and faced away from her then, but Phryne didn't move. Couldn't or didn't, it made no matter; she stayed very still until the electricity his simple kiss had elicited had receded.

And then, Phryne fell asleep.

She awoke a few hours later, however, to the sounds of Jack rustling beside her, apparently unable to rest. He seemed frustrated and she wanted desperately to help.

“Jack,” she called softly. Immediately he stopped moving. When he spoke, he didn’t turn to face her.

“Apologies, Miss Fisher, for waking you. I… if I don’t know the noises, it can be hard for me to sleep sometimes. Please, go back to bed. I’ll try to be more quiet.”

Phryne waited a moment, then, slowly, she reached out her good hand and tentatively began to rub his back. 

She felt him tense, then relax, and she let out a breath of relief that he would allow her to return the comfort he had given her.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For earlier. For making me feel… thank you.”

He nodded and she continued to rub. She could feel his breaths become slower, sleep become closer, and she continued to rub. The tear that she had successfully thwarted earlier finally broke free and she made no attempt to stop it this time. A moment later she called out to him again.

“Jack?” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper, “You’re safe, too.”

It was only down to her keen eyesight that she saw the almost imperceptible nod of his head in response. 

And then the room was quiet again, the only sound the steady rhythm of her hand on his back. It was slow and steady and _right_ , much like the man next to her. And, Phryne considered, that was just fine. 

She could be patient.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this lovely and evocative prompt: “Phryne has a sprained wrist (and is maybe high on painkillers) and Jack has to help her get ready for bed. While Phryne is not the world’s best patient, Jack is able to subdue her by learning her weakness for having her hair brushed.”


End file.
